


And the rest is silence.

by thegreatgayjatsby



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Ghost Hamlet, Ghosts, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions Fortinbras, Mentions Patroclus and Achilles, Poor sad Horatio, implied suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5620357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatgayjatsby/pseuds/thegreatgayjatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Horatio grieves for the loss of his sweet prince and finished his records, leaving an unbearable weight upon his shoulders. Hamlet returns to give Horatio respite.</p><p>Alternatively, Horatio is super sad and Hamlet is a ghost. (It runs in the family.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the rest is silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Insert crying emoji here.

When Horatio speaks of Hamlet, he can recall every detail of the last moment of light in his life. He understands now, what Hamlet meant when he told him, “Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep.” 

 

Horatio is bitter. He should have known when he returned to Denmark that the Prince would be his downfall. Hamlet gave off the air of a bridge at the edge of collapse. Hamlet had always been this way; completely incomprehensible. Being with Hamlet was synonymous with trying to speak to the Gods, to converse with the stars. 

 

As a scholar, Horatio knew, even then, that Hamlet’s actions were inexplicable. Hamlet was a ship with a crack in the hull, water seeping in until the weight was too much to hold, and he sank beneath the sea. Horatio was the sailor’s corpse washed up forty miles west. 

 

Hamlet was a tragedy in of himself. Horatio knows this. Horatio knows that every time Denmark is shaken to its core, the Prince was standing in the middle of all the rubble. “He that thou knowest thine, Hamlet.”

 

Horatio wishes Hamlet had let him say the Prince was not fit. “There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,” and yet, Hamlet was not a sparrow. Hamlet was not as inconsequential as a songbird. “If it be now, ‘tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. Let be.” Let be, let be; and yet, Horatio could not let it be. Hamlet still grasped at the lapels of his heart. 

 

“Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied.” Hamlet was doomed, and with him, Horatio. Horatio is frantic, lips trembling, knuckles white. He reaches for the poisoned cup. 

 

“Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left.” His voice is rough with emotion, hair falling across his brow as he crouches beside the Prince. Perhaps drinking would bring Hamlet to full health, rather than kill Horatio. He knows it will not.

 

“As thou’rt a man, give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I’ll have’t.” He lets Hamlet’s weakened fingers pry the goblet from his own. Hamlet’s strength is waning, and the amount of energy he has to exert to clutch at the cup dashes Horatio’s hopes. “If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart-” and by God, he had, “-in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story.” 

 

Horatio cannot disregard Hamlet’s final wish. He is honored with Hamlet’s last words. It does not prevent his dignity from crashing down around him. The look in Hamlet’s eyes, boring into Horatio’s own, nips the breath from Horatio’s lungs. “Now breaks a noble heart.” His voice wavers and cracks, and he cups Hamlet’s cheek in the palm of his hand. “Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” He aches for Hamlet’s death to be his own. 

 

Hamlet’s body gives a final spasm, bile spewing out in a sharp cough. Horatio cannot find the energy to wipe it off his clothing. His fingers curl, tight in Hamlet’s jerkin. Horatio struggles to make up for Hamlet’s slackening hold by clutching him closer. He feels as if he is Achilles, pressed to the corpse of a fallen Patroclus. But he is on cold marble floor instead of sun-kissed, blood-warmed sand on the coast of Troy. Horatio’s world has been drug out from beneath his feet, and he is toppling into the abyss. Unlike Achilles, there is no rallying cry for battle, no thirst for blood, nor revenge to be had. Horatio is alone in the great hall of the castle, Hamlet’s pallid skin beneath his quivering fingertips. He will not be buried beside his Prince.

 

When the distant sound of Norwegian soldiers approaching pierces through the daze he has immersed himself in, Horatio finds himself slumped across Hamlet’s torso, legs needled with restlessness. Hamlet’s cheek is cold when he grazes his palm across it. Hamlet’s eyes are clouded over in death. The finality strikes Horatio like a blow, and he can feel his head spinning. He closes Hamlet’s eyes. He cannot bear to see them void of life and fire any longer.

 

Fortinbras, in all his brass and armor, speaks to Horatio, and his voice is distant. “What is it ye would see?” 

 

Horatio finds himself spitting towards the man, teeth bared, “If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.” If he were a beast, his ears would be back, and his fur would be bristling. He feels like one regardless.

 

And the rest is silence. 

 

Horatio cannot bid himself to leave for England to continue his studies. He feels connected to the land that Hamlet’s blood seeped into. He feels the ground hold Hamlet’s presence. He can still hear Hamlet’s voice echoing through the halls of the castle. He can see Hamlet’s silhouette in the windows when he walks outside at night. Horatio knows that these shadows are servants, or Fortinbras’ men, or other inhabitants of the castle moving about. He wants them to be Hamlet.

 

He has dedicated himself to transcribing his Prince’s tale. He writes until the daylight has faded from the sky. He writes until his candle wick has burned out and the wax smolders in the stick’s holder. He writes until he has given himself blisters. He writes until his soul cries out for the sweet resolve of death. He writes until his hands have been stained black by ink, reflecting how he feels about being confined here. When he finishes, he can hardly find the strength to rise, or eat.

 

Horatio blames Hamlet. He is angry enough to imbibe, to tear at his hair, to go unshaven for a fortnight at a time. It has been a quarter of the Lord’s year and he still awakens at night, voice hoarse and broken from screaming; from pleading for Hamlet to let him drink. He is fragmented, pining after the remembrance of Hamlet. Hamlet has hurt him, and he cannot find it within himself to resent him for it. He finds that anger, but not hatred, remains in his heart for Hamlet.

 

The Denmark night howls outside as Horatio wanders the halls of the castle. His feet tread a familiar path. His heels click upon the marble floor until it gives way to dark stone. Horatio descends into the crypt below the castle. This place is a mere reflection of the life above. He has been inexplicably drawn here, again and again. In spite of the lachrymose aura of the place, as he passes under the archway at the bottom of the stone steps, he feels he needs to be here.

 

Horatio passes by Claudius’ sarcophagus with unbridled hatred, resisting the rash urge to spit upon the tomb of the late King. He wishes Claudius had lived so he could slaughter the vile man who had stolen away the Prince’s life, and in turn, condemned Horatio to this miserable existence. Horatio refuses to look at Claudius’ effigy. He wishes to desecrate his resting place. If he were any less of the shell of a man Hamlet had left him as, he would undo the laces of his breeches and relieve himself upon the stone face of the murderer. 

 

He is drawn to Hamlet’s tomb, and goes without pause. He regrets that before his death, Hamlet faced such strong obloquy from the rest of his people. He grazes his fingertips across the cold, harsh stone of Hamlet’s death cast. He strokes the cheek of his fallen Prince, and allows himself to be struck with emotion of such intensity that he is brought to his knees with a sob. An ugly cry works its way up from his chest and tears its way out his throat. Horatio weeps for Hamlet.

 

He is met with silence. There is no comfort in the stone all around him. Horatio wishes for death. He wishes for his life to be snatched from him, plucked like an arrow from a quiver and shot away. Horatio pummels his fists against the unfeeling tomb until his knuckles are ragged and bloody. His vision is blurry with tears, and he cannot see the figure in the corner. He hunches in on himself, prominent shoulder blades jutting beneath his nightshirt. He wails. 

 

The figure approaches. His eyes are soft, and his jaw is strong. He is familiar to Horatio. When Horatio’s sobs lull away into gasps, then soft pants, the figure speaks. “Sir,” He implores, “Horatio.” His voice is naught but a murmur, and yet, Horatio’s head snaps up as if he has been struck. Horatio’s heart nearly gives out, it is pumping so hard. His eyes widen, then narrow, and he furiously scrubs the back of his wrist across his face. He cannot seem to comprehend what is happening.

 

The figure settles silently beside him, alighting on the dias of his own sarcophagus. He stares at Horatio with an unconstrained intensity in his eyes. The figure’s appearance has obfuscated Horatio. After a pregnant pause, Horatio barks out a laugh. It is not a mirthful laugh, rather a mean, sharp burst of sound. His lips split as he grins, and his eyes fix themselves upon the ghost of Hamlet. 

 

“Most like,” Horatio whispers, raking his gaze over Hamlet like a starving man eyes bread. “Thou harrows me with fear and wonder.” 

 

Hamlet smiles back, inclining his head slightly. “Didst perceive, sweet Horatio?” 

 

“That can I. Hail to your lordship!” His voice cracks upon the final syllable, and he half-lunges, half-collapses towards the ghost. 

 

Hamlet is gelid under Horatio, but he cannot find it within himself to mind. He grasps, hands fumbling blindly up Hamlet’s sides, until he can cling to the laces of his jerkin. “Wilt thou hear me and be damned?” Hamlet asks, one hand coming up to card icy fingers through Horatio’s unkempt hair. 

 

“Aye, my lord, as your poor servant ever.” Horatio speaks weakly, turning his face to Hamlet at the ghost’s fingers hooking beneath his chin. 

 

“Thou wouldst not think ill all’s here about my heart.” Hamlet chides, still petting Horatio’s head. He bends slightly to press a kiss upon the crown of Horatio’s brow. “What advancement may I hope from thee? ‘Tis none.” He states, lips moving over Horatio’s skin, faint and chilly. 

 

Horatio shudders. “Sweet prince, these fearful summons are, but mine eyes rivet thy face. Speak! Art thou Hamlet?” The volume of his words rises into a shout, and Hamlet’s lips quirk.

 

“I have much amaz’d you.” Hamlet notes with a dry chuckle. “Heed this, servant mine.” One of the ghost’s hands draws a line following Horatio’s jaw. “Heaven will direct it, Horatio, and thou shalt come.” 

 

Horatio nods. He does not know with what he is agreeing. He is with his Prince again, and that is all that matters. 

 

“In faith, I beseech you, release of this. It is shortly known to thee all’s golden words are spent. The cup? Drink now, if thy wish.” Hamlet’s words rain down upon Horatio like fire. 

 

He resists the urge to scream, to cackle, to tear at his hair and break his hands upon the stone. “My lord,” His voice shakes with emotion as he struggles to speak. “I have lost this wager, my lord.” 

 

“Drink now.” Hamlet produces a vial from a coin purse on his hip. The dark liquid is the color of the wine that took his life. It is the very same. 

 

Horatio briefly thinks he will not need the poison, as he cannot breathe. He cannot fight the undertow, and he has been drug beneath the waves. His emotions are suddenly present after weeks of a numb soul. He can feel himself breaking apart from the inside out. His weak fingers take the glass from Hamlet. Their skin touches. “Secure me, my lord. To the peaceful summit of this cliff, I deliver death by mine own hand.” 

 

Hamlet looks melancholy for a moment, but he smiles encouragingly at the man in his lap. He cannot bear for Horatio to live in this manner any longer. Horatio’s place is with his Prince. They are not meant to be apart. Hamlet beckons for Horatio to drink. 

 

Horatio raises the vial to his lips, locks his gaze with Hamlet’s, and downs the poison. 

 

As he slides down to rest his head on Hamlet’s knee, he feels at peace. This is the first time since Hamlet’s death that he has felt whole. He can feel the destruction of his entire self begin to repair. He is at his Prince’s side. Hamlet is holding him. He is incapable of drawing air into his lungs. His limbs feel as if they are weighed down by entire tons. The vial slips from his fingers and rolls across the floor until it comes to a rest at feet of Claudius’ sarcophagus. 

 

When Horatio opens his eyes, he is bathed in warm golden light, and his chest does not hurt. His joints are smooth, and he is energized. Hamlet bends to envelop him in a tight embrace. He is with his sweet Prince at long last. 

 

And the rest is silence.


End file.
